


Rapid-Fire

by oreiad



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wooing, but not a wholesome fic, loki and nat are kinda whack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:46:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oreiad/pseuds/oreiad
Summary: Loki's seduction of Tony Stark (through the intervention of one Natasha Romanov), in a series of snapshots.





	Rapid-Fire

**Author's Note:**

> AKA
> 
> Natasha the matchmaker, Loki the unapologetic creep, and Tony the one haunted by his dark past

Natasha has always been the one to review the footage of each of their fights, as per protocol. Usually she only did a cursory scan of the footage, followed by a detailed sweep.  
  
But the way they had looked at each other was strange, so she’d watched them some more. Watched pupils widening into abysses and growing _hungry_ , like nails reaching out from under beds. Something sparked, something primal and hollow and sharp-edged.

She sits down, lifting her legs on the desk and stretching. This was the eighth time. Lucky number eight.

 _“He’s really beginning to take his time with these things, huh?”_ Clint’s voice crackles through her monitor, breezy. His pixelated figure dodges some flying debris and bolts into the nearest building, disappearing from her sight.  
  
The Avengers are spaced out around the area of Manhattan Loki has once again decided to target, deftly dodging and knocking out the humanoid trees. They were slow enough to be easily dodged, but less easy to take out. When they got a fist through one, another would immediately spring up to take the place of its lost brethren. Still, they were more of an inconvenience, than anything else.  
  
Tony was the only one allowed more breathing room; the only one making progress as he slashes his way through the trees – closer and closer to Loki, Natasha notes, from the corner of her eye.  
  
When Tony finally reaches Loki on the balcony of a building, the engineer’s faceplate sliding up to reveal a shit-eating grin, it only serves to excite the god, his form almost quivering. Words are exchanged, through sharp tongues and bleeding throats, blisteringly fast and eager, no one else able to understand, able to even begin to see the arenas their voices sweep through, before they are standing less than a metre apart, fingers shaking, eyes burning, mouths crooked.  
  
Natasha struggles to follow their words, and wonders how it must feel to be so thoroughly understood.  
  
An arrow flits through the air, slicing their words as both their eyebrows lift, and it stabs through Loki’s arm. Clint whoops, and the god curses, his jolt entirely too jerky and painful to have been from the arrow alone, as he takes in his surroundings, gives Tony a grin that crosses into a snarl, and disappears.  
  
Tony blinks, and his fingers calm. His entire body sags. The faceplate slides back on.  
  
The Avengers destroy the last of the humanoid tree things and Natasha watches herself call for a cleanup.  
  
  
She feels him coming up behind, can predict the moment he decides to slam her against the wall, wrenching her hand behind her back. She subtly contorts her body along the way, minimising the strain on her arm, even as she feigns a pained look.  
  
“Jesus,” she says, slightly out of breath, puffing a laugh. Resting her head against the wall, she tilts her chin at him, watching the god’s face as he narrows his eyes, scrutinises her own.  
  
The grip relaxes, slowly, and she waits until he has completely let go of her. He steps back, towards the bed, eyes still slits. “You’ve come alone. Your plans with me only involve negotiation.” He speaks smoothly, surely, like the way he moves, a step at a time, dragging back curtains on a painting he has never intended to reveal.  
  
He shrugs off his waistcoat, draping it over the back of one of the chairs, before leaning on the edge of the glass table beside it. “How did you find me?” He asks, casual, careless, unbuttoning his cufflinks.  
  
Natasha had broken into his hotel suite without much trouble, and now she plops herself on the edge of his bed, feeling sharp eyes watching her, as she crosses her legs, leans against the headboard, equally casual, careless. “You didn’t try very hard. There was a trail to follow. A very deliberate trail that would’ve easily shown up to anybody who knew what they were looking for. Only very few people would’ve been capable of tracking you down. And you knew who you were leaving crumbs for.”  
  
He grins, and it’s all teeth, all shine and glimmer and _predator_ , and she forces down a shiver and contorts her face into a parody of his smile. He tilts his head. “Self-compliments are a bit cheap for someone like you, Agent.”  
  
She laughs, soft, lets the silence that follows settles into something thick. She takes a breath, leans towards him, says, “I can help you, y’know,” in a conspiratorial whisper.  
  
And he leans towards her, just fractionally, a frown tracing the lines of his mouth. “Help me be imprisoned for eternity?”  
  
“If that was the case, I would’ve brought the Hulk with me. And Fury. They’d collectively scare the shit out of you.”  
  
He arches an eyebrow. “I would be the last to call you witheringly stupid, darling Widow,” he says, abruptly stopping as if in the middle of a sentence, nose wrinkled, gesturing vaguely at her.  
  
“Darling disgraced prince,” she clucks her tongue, disapproving, “don’t be such a little _bitch_ ,” she bites through the end of her words, nails digging through the bed sheets, mouth barely forming the words, _I can be dangerous too_ , and Loki imagines this to be the most honest display she’s put on so far, and feels himself relax even as a part of him erupts in sirens.  
  
She twirls a strand of loose hair around her finger before tucking it behind her ear, resting her head against the headboard. “Listen, prince, let’s strike a win-win deal. I’m very good at win-wins.”  
  
A smile twitches through his lips. “I’m sure.”  
  
“You want Tony Stark,” she says, blunt, and his eyes flash, “and I just want some more peace and quiet.”  
  
He rests his hands behind him, on the table, leaning more heavily against it. “What do you propose?”  
  
She smiles, slightly blurry, “you give me some peace and quiet,” she says, breezy, “and I’ll get you some Tony Stark.” Not that it’d be much of a challenge, really. Luckily, Loki seems _witheringly stupid_ when it comes to these things.  
  
He shakes his head, a small, abrupt gesture. “Will he be made aware of this arrangement?”  
  
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” and a laugh bursts from her, as if finding the very thought amusing, “Although you do realise he’s not an idiot, right?”  
  
He smiles, eyes almost fond, and she feels herself surprised for the first time in this exchange. “Right.”  
  
  
i.  
  
“He dreams a lot. Terrible things that leave him shaking and crying,” she says.  
  
  
Tony usually can’t tell when he’s asleep and awake. When the night terrors first began, he would spend days in a corner of the lab, afraid, until Rhodey or Pepper would come find him: eyes blank, words lost, and tried to convince him he was already awake. It still scares him to sleep, sometimes, which he only does out of pure spite.  
  
But now, he knows he’s asleep. His eyes are closed, and there’s a lightness throughout him, carrying him and weighing him down at the same time. He knows he’s asleep because of the way his lungs press against his ribs, expanding and expanding, and he wonders, stupidly, if this was how breathing was supposed to feel like.  
  
He opens his eyes.  
  
Someone stands in front of him, right in front of his eyes, but their edges are still blurry. No matter how much he squints, all he sees is this faded silhouette, an echo of a person. But they—they feel like Jarvis’ hands on his shoulders, like the scribbles he’s been keeping between a crack in the wall since he was 7, like Rhodey smothering a smile behind a palm, or like Pepper’s anxious bullet-train lectures. They feel safe, warm. They feel like home. He wants to cry.  
  
Tony reaches, fingertips quivering, mouth open but without words, only awe, as he reaches further, eyes widening and straining as the figure blurs into focus.  
  
“I—”  
  
“Tony Stark,” they say, words low, a hum that goes in time with the beats of his heart, and he has to keep from falling to his knees.  
  
He shakes his head, blinking furiously. “Loki?”  
  
The god reaches back, hand spreading around Tony’s face to settle against his cheek. Tony leans into the touch, eyes fluttering. He feels warm. Wanted.  
  
“I will protect you, Tony Stark,” and it’s the same low hum, and Tony has to stop himself from moaning and burrowing into the body.  
  
Then he realises what he’s doing.  
  
There is a quick shove, a flurry of motion and screeches, before Tony jolts awake, gasping.  
  
“Holy fucking shit.”  
  
  
She gets about two days of inactivity before Loki launches another attack, which Natasha takes to mean it didn’t go very well.  
  
Tony gets even lesser opposition than normal, as he slashes his way through Loki’s army of space gorillas, and Tony is furious in his attacks, eyes bright, part excitement, part curiosity.  
  
They banter, as usual, eager and quick and harsh, but when there’s a lull in their words, a barely-there pause that no one else would have recognised but them, familiar with each other’s flow, Tony tilts his head, smiles, says, “I think I find you fascinating.”  
  
A raised brow, a predatory smile, “You think?”  
  
“I thought a bit of uncertainty would reflect better on me.”  
  
Loki clucks his tongue, but Natasha sees his face, and sees that he is absolutely _delighted_ .  
  
  
ii.  
  
“He’s always in that lab of his,” she says, shrugging, “works and works and works. Most of the time, he doesn’t eat or sleep until one of us goes down there and drags him out.” She laughs. “You’d think he was compensating for something,” she says, tilting her head, eyes wide, “with his work ethic.”  
  
He grimaces.  
  
  
The god is in a corner of Tony’s lab, watching, knowing that he is invisible even as Tony pauses in his work to take a quick sweep of his lab – a habit, he’s observed, that seems almost paranoid in its urgency. Natasha had very kindly provided the detailed layout of Stark Tower – probably after some rearrangement and redaction – but accurate enough to allow him to get to this point, right now, watching Tony work. She’d also disabled some sort of magic detection within this part of the building, and he knows she is watching, listening, close-by. He has learnt to not underestimate the Widow.  
  
“I’m so fucking tired,” Tony groans, upper body collapsing against the table. Loki takes an instinctive step forward, and is immediately embarrassed at the lack of control. He steps back.  
  
The engineer rubs his face against the metal surface, and Loki briefly imagines his hands around his throat.  
  
Loki suppresses a sigh, before waving at a hand at the coffee machine against one of the walls, to Tony’s left, and it smoothly whirrs to life. Tony raises his head, blinks blearily for a minute, before it drops back down with a muted clang. Loki winces, removes the invisibility spell as he walks towards the coffee machine, waving a hand to pull up a chair for Tony before he falls to the floor.  
  
He pushes the cup of (horrid-smelling) coffee towards Tony’s splayed arms, leaning to rest against the edge of the table. Tony still doesn’t stir, so he twirls his hands, practised and precise movements, and a bowl of chicken soup appears, along with some cutlery. Then he snaps a finger, taps it to the bowl and the mug, so they remain steaming until Tony swallows them down.  
  
The engineer is soft, for the first time Loki has seen him, lashes fluttering and breaths settled. He is soft, and Loki remembers the way he smiles when he is awake, sharp-edged and wicked, and he feels himself grow soft as well. Tony lifts his head, drowsy, blinks with heavy lids at the face that looks down at him, and stares.  
  
“I must be dreaming again,” he says, still staring, and the god only smiles for him, before Tony shakes his head, disbelieving, allows his head to drop, but with his face tilted towards Loki this time, fighting to keep his eyes open.  
  
Loki feels something like affection, swelling and swelling and swallowing, and he thinks, _what have you done to me?_ And he reaches a hand out, threads his fingers through soft hair, fingertips skimming his scalp, and Tony’s eyes roll back, his mouth falls open. Loki massages his scalp, feeling the strands brush against his skin, and he feels calm, he feels quiet. He laughs, just a little, when he remembers he is the god of chaos, yet he feels contentment like never before, in this moment, as he watches Tony’s eyes close, breaths once again settling into a slow rhythm.  
  
  
Tony wakes with a painful jerk, red eyes strained wide as he searches. He can’t remember what he’s searching for, but he feels like he’s lost something.  
  
When he finds the bowl of chicken soup and the cup of coffee – all still warm – he drags his head through all the possibilities, before vigorously shaking his head from the weight of it all, tired tired tired. His head spins. He gulps down the coffee.  
  
Putting down the cup, he looks at the chicken soup. These aren’t his—clearly gestures of concern, meant to be appreciated. One of his robots? JARVIS? One of his teammates? Nick fucking Fury, maybe? Okay, probably not the last one.  
  
He loads the spoon with soup and shoves it into his mouth, feeling it slowly trickle down his throat. There seems to be a moment of temporary concern as he furrows his brows, staring down at the bowl and Loki wonders at the sudden clarity, some part even _hoping_ —before Tony shrugs, and throws himself into work again.  
  
Loki watches, and feels fondness and exasperation all at once.  
  
  
A week and a half of inactivity, before Loki tries to invade Manhattan with shape shifting monster slugs. But this time he seems bored, restless, like he’s just going through a routine, until Tony reaches him again, and he smiles, smiles and smiles and smiles, and Natasha knows he is lost.  
  
  
iii.  
  
Tony wakes from another dream with Loki, face flushed scarlet, sweat dripping through his hair. He lifts his sheets, peers under them, and groans. “What the fuck is happening to me?”  
  
  
Natasha is usually the first to wake up – after Steve and Bruce. Clint has widely varying sleeping schedules, and Tony never sleeps. But last night she’d collapsed mid-afternoon, after spending nights at the office with Maria doing endless paperwork, among—other things. So she wakes at 4.30am, and walks into the kitchen, stretching and feeling joints pop in places she’d nearly forgotten about.  
  
When she gets to the common living room, however, while on her way to the kitchen, she spots a figure spread across the couch, with the television on in front of them. She tilts her head, says, “Tony? What’re you doing?”  
  
He pushes himself to sit up, looking over his shoulder at her with forlorn eyes, and pats the space beside him. “Sit. I’d like your opinion on something.” She raises a brow, but does so anyway, spreading her arm across the back of the couch.  
  
“Okay, so,” he says, resting his head against his palm, with his elbow on the armrest, “you ever find a super villain attractive?”  
  
She blinks. The little fucker is smooth. “Attractive? In what sense?”  
  
“I dunno. Sexually? Physically?”  
  
“Oh. Sure. Plenty. I’m virile.”  
  
He laughs. “Okay, but you ever feel the attraction grow slightly obsessive? Like, you keep dreaming about them, and it just—I don’t know,” Tony only looks more tired, and confused, by the confession. “I don’t know. I guess, it’s just, I’m a little afraid. Just a little. I guess.”  
  
She doesn’t say anything, watches him contort his face into a pained expression, and lets her arm on the back of the couch drop to rest on Tony’s shoulders, wrapping him, pulling him close. He sighs into the touch, and after a few minutes of cuddling, she feels him fall asleep.  
  
  
Loki appears as a tall man in a three-piece suit with slick backed hair and a briefcase, movements still catlike and elegant. He tilts his head at her, both of them sitting by the window of a café only half-full, filled with chatter and typing.  
  
“You texted me,” he says, both a question and a statement.  
  
“I did.”  
  
He looks around the café, leans in, “you sounded angry.”  
  
She mirrors his movements. “I was.”  
  
“I’m going to guess the anger was directed at me? What have I done to incur the Widow’s wrath?”  
  
“You’ve been appearing in his dreams, haven’t you?”  
  
He frowns. Nods. 

“You’ve been manipulating his thought process through his dreams,” she says, a calculated carelessness. “You will tell me exactly what you’ve done to him, or I will tell you _exactly_ what I will do to you.” She leans forward, sliding her hand under her chin; her fluid, gentle actions making him focus on the venom electric on the tips of her fingers.

He almost forgets to breathe. He believes her. “I’ve only appeared in two dreams of his,” he speaks slowly, finding his voice again. “The first on the night you told me about them, the second he banished me from the moment he saw me. I’ve not attempted to invade his dreamscape since. I’ve only been helping him keep his night terrors at bay.”  
  
Her eyes narrows, and she searches for something in his face, before leaning back. Her hands up, as if in surrender, and Loki feels like he’s watching a movie with all the scenes in the wrong order. “I believe you.”  
  
“That was… anticlimactic.” He mirrors. “Somehow, I expected a lot more suspicion.”  
  
She waves his words away. “It’s not very hard to believe that Tony is dreaming of having vigorous sex with you. It’s almost as if you don’t look at him enough.”  
  
“I do not,” he agrees, gentle, and there is an unnameable pause. “Then why bring me out to tell me this today?”  
  
“I just thought you needed to be reminded that if you break him – if he leaves you with a piece missing or misshapen,” she smiles, all teeth, face lined with something electric, and Loki suddenly thinks: H U N T E R, “then I will ruin you.”  
  
  
iv.  
  
“Listen, you’ve been going about this your way and have made absolutely no progress.”  
  
He glares, petty. “Then what does Cupid suggest?”  
  
She laughs. “Do it his way. Our way.”  
  
“The Midgardian way?”  
  
She nods.  
  
“But it’s so—so crude and b—”  
  
“Beneath you? Love fucks with us all.”  
  
He clucks his tongue. “Am I in love, Romanoff?”  
  
“You’re asking me?”  
  
“Bystanders are usually better judges than the people involved.”  
  
She tilts her head. “You’re still a bystander, so I think it’s an answer you know for yourself.” Smiles. “Although I can show you how to get involved.”  
  
  
Loki’s phone buzzes on his bedside table. He sets his book aside. He’s been living in a hotel, holing up inside a suite and burying himself in Midgardian literature. The quality too widely varying, but occasionally he’d find something incredibly interesting.  
  
_Looks like someone just got a Midgardian date with Anthony Edward Stark! 7pm, the restaurant in the hotel you’re staying at – yes, I know what hotel you’re staying at._  
  
He blinks. _What?_ He types back.  
  
_Either your universal translator is broken, or you’re more witheringly stupid than I thought._  
  
He scrolls up, rereads the first message, and has to stop himself from breaking the phone in half. Loosens his grip. Shakes his hand. Shakes his head. Harder. Theoretically, he should be feeling gratitude, but there is an energy in his hands, the kind that doesn’t come with something as light and freeing like gratitude.  
  
His phone buzzes again. _Afraid?_ Another quickly follows: _I can help you._ Then, _if you let me, that is._  
  
Loki considers his options. Feels the energy still electric in his fingers. _I would like your help very much._  
  
He can feel the satisfaction radiating through the phone as she sets up a time and location, but is surprisingly unbothered by it.  
  
The place they’ve arranged to meet at is one of the larger local shopping malls in Manhattan, early afternoon. Loki shows up in that face that isn’t his – more rounded, softer, deeper-set eyes, with the slicked back hair and three-piece suit. Natasha shows up in a beanie, hoodie, and sweatpants. Loki’s face only twitches very slightly when he sees her, which means he must really want to hear her out.  
  
He follows her into a café, almost empty but still filled with a quiet, constant chatter, so nothing they said would’ve stood out. He heads into a corner, near one of the windows. She goes to the counter and orders something, all glowing smiles and charming small talk. Malleable. He briefly wonders how the alien invasion would’ve gone if he’d had her under his control, instead of Barton.  
  
She comes back, two cups of coffee in her hands, before he gets to the details of this alternate future—her standing on the bodies of her once-friends before promptly stomping on Banner’s face buildings burning burning she is flowers and golden and chaos and she serves hi—He thanks her, takes nonchalant sips even as he feels his tongue scream. Better to silence it, for now.  
  
She raises a brow, eyes flickering between the steam and his mouth, but doesn’t pry. “Tony’s pretty happy about being able to go on a date.”  
  
He inclines his head. “Which I’m assuming means you didn’t tell him was with me?”  
  
“Would you like him to know?” She blows gently on her coffee, taking minute sips.  
  
“A mutually consenting date would be nice, given the other option.”  
  
She raises her arms, as if in defeat. “Don’t let me stop you. But how would you manage to do that in a restaurant?”  
  
He considers. Telling him at the start would be idiotic; he wouldn’t shut up long enough to hear him out. _Hello, nice shirt, by the way, I’m Loki. Yes, that one. Please stop screaming._ Telling him at the end possibly even more so; he would feel lied to, and there’s nothing either of them hate more than being dragged along and then told what they were after didn’t exist.  
  
Then, he blinks, lifts his eyes to hers, and holds his breath.  
  
She blinks back.  
  
He lets go, feels his form stabilising.  
  
It was a very subtle change, and looking into Loki’s eyes had brought about a sudden, almost nauseating bout of déjà vu, and the air around him stopped for just a moment, the mirage blurring.  
  
“Won’t other people notice, too, though?” She asks, taking another sip of her coffee.  
  
“Not unless I want them to.”  
  
“Well, here’s to you not getting punched immediately after, you obnoxious fuck.”  
  
“You are beginning to sound too affectionate.”  
  
She laughs, and holds up her coffee as if to toast. He obliges.  
  
She swallows down half the cup, sets it down, and folds her arms across the table, leaning forward. “Tony’s old-fashioned at heart. Kinda like you. Listen, get something nice that’s also wearable. Some flowers. He’s into that kinda shit. Likes being courted. Likes the singular attention. And if he likes you enough, will pay you equally singular attention. Or rather, if he’s scared of you leaving enough. You two are so similar.” She shakes her head. “This is the make it or break it date. It’s your official proposal, in a sense. Don’t fuck it up. Don’t scare him off.”  
  
He nods, internalises the information. Then raises his head. “Why do you want me to do this right so badly? Do you get anything out of this, other than peace from one super villain – out of the many you and your allies so desperately fight?”  
  
“You’re different,” she says simply, “you’re redeemable.” She sips. “You are who he could've been, if he'd let himself.”  
  
He tastes something bitter, but smiles. “My mirror.”  
  
She turns away from him then, seemingly bored of the conversation. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”  
  
  
He is standing in front of the mirror, frowning, when someone knocks at his door.  
  
“Romanoff,” he says, surprised.  
  
She waves, sidestepping him to enter his suite. “At this point, you should just call me ‘Natasha’. I’m here to get you ready.”  
  
“He looks down at himself. I still have forty-five minutes and I’m dressed. What else is there?”  
  
“Not bad,” she says, sniffing the air, “you’ve got extremely decent cologne there. Is it magic?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She nods. “Good thinking.” She throws herself onto the bed, folding her legs under her and watching him. “Lose the suit. It’s too formal. The restaurant is pretty high-end so you gotta make sure you fit in, but also—it’s probably coming off before the night ends, so nothing too intricate. Have a nice shirt on.”  
  
Loki snaps his fingers, loses the tie of his three piece, changes the white shirt to something purple, his pants and outerwear to a plain black instead.  
  
Natasha smiles. “You look good,” she says, all warmth and liquid.  
  
He adjusts his cufflinks, nods at her, smiles. “Thank you.”  
  
She holds up a finger. “We’ll see.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
  
Tony finds himself earlier than he usually is on dates – that is, fifteen minutes early, when he is usually fifteen minutes late (give or take an hour). He rests his head on his palm, elbow on the table, facing away from the door. He hadn’t allowed himself to romanticise his date before he’d met them, but he was still filled with a slow buzz, a mild prickling excitement. Natasha had a good eye when it came to people. And now, now he was a little afraid to face the door, to seem too eager – god, he was in his fifties for fuck’s sake.  
  
“Found something else of interest?” The voice hums, almost a _purr_ , and he shivers. He knows that voice, he—  
  
He turns, careful to not seem alarmed. But the man that faces him is a face he has never seen before. The man smiles, radiating charm, and reaches over to shake Tony’s hand before sitting down. He’s still holding Tony’s eyes, and Tony feels abashed for the abrupt bout of paranoia and—and wow this man has really nice eyes, a deep shade of brown—wait, green?  
  
He blinks, disorientated. As the man sits, his angles blur, and he suddenly seems like a puzzle Tony’s been trying to solve for years, but now with all the pieces in the wrong places. He knows that face, that puzzle.  
  
“Loki,” he says, slightly breathless.  
  
“Tony Stark,” Loki says, inclining his head as if curious. “You look well.”  
  
“So do you.” Did Loki intercept his date, or did Natasha know? “I was looking forward to today.” Tony mellows his voice so he doesn’t sound bitter or excited, a neutral statement intended to coax a reaction.  
  
But the god suddenly seems so much brighter. “It was very much the same on my side. I have always wanted to converse with you without all the fighting. You are particularly delightful to talk to.”  
  
Tony laughs. That sounds suspiciously like what someone on an actual date with might say. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same. Habit of overthinking everything – you never see the positive of change.”  
  
Loki leans in, as if drawn. “I hope I can change your mind.”  
  
At that, he waves over a server, and makes his order with a smile that enthralls, and gestures to Tony, who looks over the menu and orders with an equally lovely smile. They’re both good at being pretenders, trying at something they’re not.  
  
The server leaves after confirming their orders.  
  
“So,” Tony says, leaning forward to continue resting his cheek against his palm, “what brings you here? To me?”  
  
“Fishing for compliments?” Loki smiles, tilting his head. He taps his finger against his chin, and Tony is already preparing for a convoluted lie—“You have the most incredible mind and unpredictable tongue. I think you are absolutely remarkable.”  
  
Tony blinks. Jesus fucking Christ. He almost laughs now. This was an atmosphere he’s never shared with Loki before.  
  
“Although I could ask you the very same question,” Loki says, “what keeps you from running?”  
  
The engineer laughs. “I’ve told you this before, I’m pretty sure. I find you fascinating. There’s a part of me that wants to solve you, pin you; another that wants to just watch you set things on fire. Both are very much pulled in by you.”  
  
Loki blinks, surprised by the honesty. Then, “I don’t object to the pinning.”  
  
A surprised laugh bursts from Tony, and the air around them settles, grows into something more comfortable. The food arrives, and they spend the night chatting, weaving elaborate tales and forcing the other to separate their truths and fiction. When they guessed right, they were rewarded with honesty. Wrong, and the tale they’re telling grows into chaos, each truth and lie indiscernible from the next.  
  
They are the last to leave, right after Loki notices the tick in their server’s eye and Tony notices the manager glance at the closed sign and back at them.  
  
Loki invites him to his hotel room.  
  
  
“How was the date?” Natasha asks, not turning to look away from the screen as the elevator to the common floor dings, the doors sliding open.  
  
“Loki’s living here, from now on. He’s getting the 62nd floor.”  
  
She turns, sees the two of them glancing away from her to smile at each other, unfiltered, like they were entwined, like they were within each other’s orbits, and Natasha knows they are lost.  
  
She raises a brow. “I take it that it went well.”

**Author's Note:**

> another exercise in self-indulgence, complete with nonsensical plot and sprinkles of OOC-ness


End file.
